Chapter 9
The second year was about growth.
We expanded the yard. We took on more restorations. The Lorelei was featured in a national boating magazine. People flew in from across the country to see her. To commission work.
I hired a full-time crew of eight. I set up an apprenticeship program for kids from the local high school. I wanted to give them what I'd never had — a place where they were seen. Where their work mattered.
Dad ran the office. He was good at it. Meticulous. Calm. He'd found his place. He and Grandpa sat together every morning, drinking coffee, talking about the old days. Forgiving each other, in their quiet way.
Fallon thrived at the bakery. She'd started designing cakes. She was talented. She made the cake for the yard's anniversary party — a masterpiece shaped like the Lorelei. Everyone was amazed.
She was dating someone now. A teacher at the high school. Kind. Gentle. Nothing like Bryce. She was learning what real love felt like.
Eli and I moved in together. A small house near the water. We adopted a dog. A rescue named Barnacle. He was ugly and loyal and perfect.
Life was good.
But I hadn't forgotten.
I started a foundation. The Arthur Callahan Fund. It helped small family businesses fighting fraudulent land grabs. It paid legal fees for people like me — people who couldn't afford a Karen Pruitt. Grandpa was the face of it. He loved every minute.
Linda — no, that was someone else's story. My foundation helped dozens of families in its first year. People wrote to me. They told me their stories. They thanked me.
I wrote back to every single one.
Then, one day, a letter came. From a prison in Michigan.
From Sybil.
I held it for a long time before I opened it. Eli sat beside me. He didn't say anything. He just held my hand.
I opened it.
It was two pages. In my mother's precise handwriting.
She didn't apologize. Not really. She wrote about prison. About the food. About the other women. She wrote that she'd been thinking. That maybe she'd made some mistakes. That she hoped I could find it in my heart to forgive her. That family was important. That she'd be out in a few years, and maybe we could start over.
I read it twice.
Then I put it down.
"Do you want to write back?" Eli said.
I thought about it. For a long time, I thought about it.
"No," I said finally. "I don't owe her anything. Not forgiveness. Not a reply. Not even my anger. She took enough. I'm not giving her any more of me."
I put the letter in a drawer. I didn't burn it. I didn't keep it close. I just — put it away.
That evening, I stood on the dock, watching the sun set over the lake. Eli came up behind me, put his arms around my waist. Barnacle sat at our feet.
"You're free," he said.
May you like
I leaned back against him. "I'm free."
And I was.
